was only one thing for it. Maybe the sheer repetition of the aria had stomped out his neurons, but Mac was relatively certain the only way to stop this bird from singing the same thing over and over was to give him something new to sing. And while the Kentucky Fight Song might have been a masculine choice, Mac also knew that would wear even worse than the opera.
He felt like a complete idiot walking up the stairs to Mary Thorpe’s apartment with Curly doing the bird equivalent of humming—a sort of half whistling noise accompanied by a comical head bob—on his shoulder. He didn’t, however, have Mary’s phone number, and he was sure in another hour he’d be incapable of putting a sentence together. “Behave yourself for both our sakes,” he told Curly as he knocked on the door.
She opened the door cautiously, trying not to broadcast her alarm at seeing Curly. “Hi there,” she said too kindly, forcing her smile.
“Do you think,” Mac spoke, finding the words more idiotic by the second, “we could teach Curly something else? I’m living with a broken record here and it’s driving me nuts.” On a whim he looked at the bird and stated, “You need a bigger repertoire, don’t you, boy?”
“Yep!” Curly squawked, nodding.
“No offense to your opera,” Mac confessed, “but I don’t think I could take even my favorite song nonstop like he’s been doing.”
She opened the door a bit more. He could see she’d gotten much farther in her unpacking, and the small apartment was starting to look like a home. “Haven’t you taught…” she inclined her head toward the feathered occupant of Mac’s right shoulder.
“Curly.”
“Curly any other songs?”
Curly bobbed a bit at the mention of his name. “No, actually. I didn’t know he could sing until you moved in. Seems bluegrass doesn’t interest him, but whatever it was…”
“Mozart,” she reminded, a hint of a smile finally making its way across her features.
“…catches his fancy. So,” Mac continued, daring to bring Curly off his shoulder to sit on his forearm, “you got any more Mozart for Curly to learn? A CD of something quiet and background-ish to get me through these last two days?”
Mary opened the door wide, raising one eyebrow. “Mozart didn’t write elevator music.”
“There’s got to be something. As long as it’s not the 1812 Overture, it’ll be an improvement.”
“I’m not in the habit of giving singing lessons. Not even to humans.”
Curly started in on the aria again.
“I’ll pay you. Another ten minutes of this and you can name your price.”
Mary looked at the bird. “Hush up, Curly.” She had a teacher’s voice—gentle, but you knew she meant business.
Wonder of wonders, Curly hushed. Now Curly gets cooperative? Where was all that avian obedience ten minutes ago? “Whoa,” Mac reflected, turning Curly so he could look him in one traitorous black eye. “Teach me that first.”
Mary shrugged, as if she didn’t have an answer to that, and motioned Mac and Curly into her apartment. Mac was right—she had settled in. The place looked more lived-in than the months Cameron Rollings had laughingly called it his “bachelor pad.” She went to her bookcases, traveling through her CD collection with dainty flicks of her finger. “I’m thinking he needs voices, so none of the chamber music will do—that’s all mostly instrumental. Oh,” she noted and plucked a CD from the shelf, “this might work.”
She inserted the disc into her player and a soft, high, female voice lilted out of the speakers. Curly cocked his head to one side. Mary looked at Curly and sang along, conducting with her forefinger. Curly began inspecting Mac’s watch.
“I’m thinking that’s a ‘no.”
Mary pulled another selection and popped it into her sound system.
The same tenor voice as Curly’s previous obsession came over the speakers, but this time Pavarotti was singing Italian songs. The kind guys in striped shirts sang as they pushed boats through Venice. Not very hip, but still better than opera. Mary walked up to Curly and began singing along, conducting with her fingers again. This time Curly took notice, swooping his head around to match the movement of her hand. She caught Mac’s eye, and they both nodded. “I suppose technically I have you to thank for my job, since part of my job description is to take everyone’s mind off the mayoral conflict. This lesson will be on the house.” She sang a few more bars as the chorus came around again, and Curly began making noises. “Future lessons from the tonic for Middleburg’s mayoral malaise might cost you.”
“Very catchy, but I don’t think it’s the civic disaster they’re making it out to be.”
“For what it’s worth,” Mary said over the swelling music, “neither do I.”
“There will be no more lessons. The floor guys will be done with my house by Friday. After that, Mr. Music here stays home.” Pavarotti launched into another song, a Dean Martin number Mac recognized from his ma’s record collection. “Who knew my bird has such questionable taste in music?”
“Curly has very good taste, actually.”
When she looked at him, he realized he’d just insulted her CD collection. Just hitting them out of the ballpark here, MacCarthy, aren’t we? She didn’t say so, but it glared out of her eyes just the same; better taste than you, evidently.
“Could I make a copy of that CD?” he said sheepishly.
“Music is copyrighted material, Mr. MacCarthy. I’m sure you wouldn’t take kindly to my Xeroxing your latest blueprints and passing them around, would you?”
“Okay,” Mac conceded slowly, feeling like this conversation had started off badly and was slipping further downhill fast.
She softened her tone as she handed him the CD. “But you may borrow this one for the moment. If Curly needs further…inspiration…I’m sure you can find your way to a copy. An original copy, bought and paid for.”
“Absolutely. You got it.” Mac took the slim plastic box from her, and Curly put his head up to it, rubbing against the corner in a disturbingly lovesick gesture. “And, well, I’m sorry you got hired to fix whatever it is people think I broke.”
“I’m not sorry,” she commented, opening the door for them to go, “but if I get sorry, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know. I think it’s sort of sweet, actually, how much people care about getting along here.”
“If people cared about getting along here, you could have fooled me,” Mac observed. “There’s a town hall meeting tomorrow night—come see how much getting along we actually do.”
“Pastor Anderson,” Mary began.
“Dave,” the older man corrected.
“Dave,” she said, still not entirely comfortable with the concept of calling a member of the clergy by his first name. Up until this summer, she’d seen people like Dave Anderson
